


Paris At My Feet

by ChaosButterfly



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosButterfly/pseuds/ChaosButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire comes to realise some truths about Enjolras and their relationship. Reasonably explicit sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paris At My Feet

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've written a story with sex so I urge you to be forgiving.

Grantaire ignored Les Amis moving around him as the meeting ended. He stared at the jug of wine in front of him as if trying to divine the answers of the universe in the chips and cracks. He should leave. 

Enjolras stood next to him and sighed both exasperated and resigned. 

“Why do you continue to come to these meetings?” 

Grantaire determinedly dragged his attention from the bottle to Enjolras. 

“I thought Joly spoke eloquently tonight on the popular suspicion that the King is poisoning the wells with cholera and your discussion concerning the failures of 1789, 1830 and 1831 was quite incisive,” Grantaire said flatly. 

“I can’t tell when you’re mocking me,” Enjolras snapped. He ran a hand through his hair. “This is more important than you can imagine. We will change the world - us and Paris. Look at what has been achieved in America. They have thrown off the yoke of monarchical oppression and created society anew. France has that within her grasp again but we have the chance to make something even better. We can’t afford to let this chance slip through our fingers again Grantaire, don’t you see?” 

Like a moth Grantaire was drawn in by the flame of revolutionary zeal that was alight in Enjolras. Every sarcastic and cynical retort died on his tongue and he took the jug of wine in his hand. Enjolras shook his head.

“That is not the answer to everything.”

Grantaire ignored him. Slowly and purposefully he tipped the contents onto the ground. The wine splashed onto their shoes as they stared at the spreading stain on the wooden floor. 

“A libation.” Enjolras’ head jerked up.

“To Dionisys?”

Grantaire stood and raised his hand but didn’t dare to touch skin to skin. 

“To Apollo.”

Enjolras closed his eyes and leaned his head into Grantaire’s cupped palm. 

“I am not God,” Enjolras said roughly. Grantaire didn’t acknowledge him. His large calloused fingertips dragged over Enjolras’ cheek and down his neck. As a reverent worshipper driven by faith to greater acts of daring, Grantaire’s hand slipped under the collar of his shirt. The marble statue shuddered and Enjolras came alive under his palm. 

Their lips met. The jug shattered as Grantaire tangled his fingers in blonde curls, anchoring them together. Enjolras’ approached this with the same kind of fervour with which he planned for revolution. For the first time Grantaire felt an answering fire kindle on his skin and spread through him as their bodies pressed together. His hero worship, longing and frustration combined into one terrifying, driving ecstasy as he yanked Enjolras’ shirt from the waistband of his trousers and pulled the shirt off his shoulders. As Enjolras’ hands fumbled with their trouser buttons Grantaire finally felt he understood the kind of passion that drove men to sacrifice themselves. 

When they were both completely naked Enjolras paused. Their panting breath filled the air. A cold wash of fear drained through Grantaire as he waited for Apollo to realise his mistake. Enjolras smiled and turned to brace himself against the large window frame.

“You know what to do,” Enjolras said with all the certainty of a hero of the revolution. Grantaire licked the warm skin at the nape of his neck and spread his hands on his shoulders.

“Here?” 

“Yes,” Enjolras hissed the sibilant S as he felt Grantaire’s short fingernails scrape down his back until his hands squeezed his arse. 

This was not the first time Grantaire had done this for a man. He brought his fingers to his lips and made a show of closing his eyes, hollowing his cheeks and flicking his tongue over his own skin. Then he pressed the slick fingers slowly into Enjolras, one by one. The first press of his thumb caused a shiver of pleasure to run through him as Enjolras’ head hit the window pain. He licked a trickle of sweat from Enjolras’ spine as he used both hands to stretch him. Pleasure rolled through him as he saw Enjolras’ cock jump when he swapped his thumb for the index and middle fingers. They groaned together as he drove his fingers deeper. 

“Now,” Grantaire growled, helpless in the face of his own ardor and the sweet sounds his ministrations were wringing from Enjolras’ mouth. He screwed his eyes shut and pressed his face into Enjolras’ shoulder. He thrust himself in and held his body flush against Enjolras for a moment as the delicious heat and pressure threatened to overwhelm him. He could feel Enjolras’ heart beat in time with his. As his fingers touched Enjolras’ cock the squeak of sweaty palm dragging against the dirty pane made him look up. 

They were several floors up and they could see Parisian revellers of all classes in the square below them going about their late night business. One girl sold lilies to the men and women leaving the theatre, a man was throwing up in a gutter, a group of boys were pissing up the side of a building just off the square and a fight was breaking out in front of a cafe. Enjolras was wearing an expression of indescribable joy but between one heartbeat and the next Grantaire realised that the reflection in the glass had nothing to do with him. Enjolras loved every disgusting, pitiful peasant that scurried under their window but he could never love him. 

Grantaire began to thrust hard and fast into Enjolras, unable to take his eyes off the sight of Apollo’s benevolent smile. Enjolras gasped at the change of pace and Grantaire’s body began to sing. He was acutely aware of every inch of skin that touched his. He was closer to Enjolras than any of those abased wretches would ever get and yet nothing he could do would touch his heart. He was torn. Jealousy wracked him for the love that would never be bestowed upon him but even as the hatred threatened to consume him a deep love began to bloom He couldn’t help but want to love that which was so much a part of Enjolras and loved by him. Paris could not comprehend how much it was loved and hated in that moment.

His passion drove him forward toward the inevitable climax. As Enjolras shuddered under his hands their eyes met. Grantaire saw his own reflection, distorted further by the cheap glass into even more profound ugliness, join with Enjolras’ pure beauty. He stared at the image of shining Apollo merging with twisted Hephaestus as he came.


End file.
